‘I think,’ said Hemingway, laying a bloodstained handkerchief on the table between them, ‘that this is yours.’

‘No, it’s not!’ replied Roydon, in a frightened voice. ‘I never saw it before in my life!’

Hemingway stared disconcertingly at him for a moment, and then straightened the handkerchief, and pointed with the butt of his pencil to the embroidered letter in the corner.

‘I don’t know anything about it!’ Roydon said obstinately.

‘Laundry-marks, too,’ observed Hemingway. ‘Easily identified.’

There was an awful silence. Nothing in Roydon’s experience had fitted him to cope with such a situation as this. He was badly frightened, and showed it.

‘You put it into the incinerator by the potting-sheds, didn’t you?’ said Hemingway.

‘No!’

‘Come, come, sir, you’re not doing yourself any good by telling lies to me! I know you put it there.’

Roydon seemed to crumple up. ‘I know what you think, but you’re wrong! I didn’t murder Mr Herriard! I didn’t, I tell you!’

‘How did your handkerchief come to be in this state?’

‘I had a bad nose-bleed!’ Roydon blurted out.

The Sergeant, who was a silent witness, turned his slow gaze upon Hemingway, to see how he would receive this explanation.

‘Do you burn your handkerchiefs every time you have a nose-bleed?’ asked Hemingway.

‘No, of course I don’t, but I knew what you’d think if you found it! I – I lost my head!’

‘When did you have this nose-bleed?’

‘Last night, after I’d gone up to bed. I put the handkerchief in my suitcase, and then I thought – I thought if you were to find it there it would look suspicious. I heard you were searching the house, and – and I thought I’d better get rid of it!’

‘Did you tell anyone about your nose-bleed?’

‘No. No, naturally I didn’t! It isn’t anything to make a fuss about. As a matter of fact, I often get them.’

‘But this morning, when you were afraid I might find the handkerchief, didn’t you think to mention to anyone what had happened?’

‘Yes, but I couldn’t say it then! I mean, it would have sounded odd. At least, I thought it would. Everyone would have wondered if it was true, or if I was only trying to account for the blood on my handkerchief. Oh, I know I behaved like a fool, but I swear I had nothing to do with the murder!’

‘Haven’t you ever heard of blood-tests?’ asked Hemingway.

‘Yes; but suppose my blood and Mr Herriard’s belong to the same group?’ objected Roydon. ‘I thought of that, and it seemed much safer to get rid of the damned thing. Because it could only lead you down a side-track, honestly!’

‘Well, if your story’s true, you’ve given me a great deal of trouble through behaving so foolishly,’ said Hemingway.

‘I’m sorry. Of course, I see now that it was silly of me, but the fact of the matter is that this whole affair is getting on my nerves.’ A sense of grievance overcame him. ‘I don’t think I’ve been treated at all well!’ he complained. ‘I was invited down here to a friendly party, and first Mr Herriard was damned rude to me, and then he got himself murdered, and now I know very well I’m under suspicion, and it has nothing whatsoever to do with me!’